


two moons

by kuraku



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 20:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11721987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuraku/pseuds/kuraku
Summary: mafia-verse exo, based on tumblr edits.part one: sehun cyberstalks a pretty little prostitute, but he should learn to keep his mouth shut.





	1. part one

     It's called "trick booking"--at least, that's what Sehun has heard it called around his circles. Not that his circles were actually circles; not that people actually called them anything out loud. They typed the words, stiff, dark, in print that made his eyes hurt when he read it into the early morning hours, after the too many cups of coffee started to run through him and the empty pudding cups built up like a shrine around his laptop screen. Sleep was a luxury that rarely came easy to him; it had never been a priority, not even when he lived with his parents and the only way to escape persecution was to sleep. Sleep was safety. After all, what could someone do to you while you were sleeping? And even if they could do something, find some other way to torture you--would you even notice?

     But he didn't sleep. He didn't sleep even when he had exams, even when he had physical education. He didn't sleep when his mother left him behind or when his sister came home drunk and blamed him for the family's shortcomings. It didn't faze him. Instead he sat, lifeless, tired eyes scrolling across the screen of his computer, catching up on forum talk or the odd e-mail received from people he hadn't met and probably never would. It was how he'd started down this path. It was how he made a living. (And how much money was paid to him to sit around as technical support for companies who rarely needed help outside of accidentally hiding their desktop or deleting something they wanted to save?) Even if money was short, or when there was something he wanted to buy, there were always other ways to make cash. It was the internet. Among the circles-that-weren't-really-circles, the username OhSe meant a person was dealing with someone professional. Dealing with a technical genius. A loner. Sociopath.

     Maybe he was a strange kid. Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe he had killed his whole family. Maybe he was still living in their house, a high school drop out, sitting around in pools of their congealed blood. Maybe he froze their fingers and ate them for dessert. Maybe he was designing some kind of super bug, a technological disaster, that would wipe out entire governmental computer systems, because life had dealt him a bad hand. Maybe he was out to destroy the world to make up for it.

     Or maybe he'd just run away from a life no one had wanted him to have. The rumors still ran rampant. Sehun didn't bother to keep up with them.

     Trick booking--the art of booking a prostitute, online, without any of the fuss of actually having to go to a whorehouse. Really, in the simplest sense of the words, it made sense. Sehun didn't know why the idea would come as a surprise to anyone. If you knew the right hotels to look up, you'd know that the rooms there weren't really rooms. You weren't really paying extra for a kitchenette or double beds. You were requesting a male or a female. You were selecting particular sexual acts. The list of amenities was there as a coded guideline, a way to see everything that the hotel offered. The list of staff members? Well, it was obvious they weren't going to be there to give you mints on your pillows or fold the toilet paper down into that neat little triangle. Charged by the hour, you could have anything your heart desired. Provided, of course, that you had purchased a login ticket.

     A login ticket was the only way a person could book the room. After all, the hotel would lose money if their rooms were rented out to people who actually just wanted somewhere to stay for a night, who had stumbled in on accident. So, you went to the right place, paid a hefty price, received access, and booked your room.

     Alternatively, you bought a case of Starbucks double-shots, turned on the desk fan, and hacked your way into the system.

     OhSe, computer extraordinaire, coding genius.

     There were never any rumors about him having a crush.

 

     He'd been stalking this particular prostitute for close to two weeks now. Their eyes were round, soft, as though innocence hadn't quite yet left them, as the world hadn't raped them of all of their bright hope and determination. Sehun didn't know how anyone could still be like that. Sehun didn't understand how the world could favor other people and kick others into the dirt. Perhaps it was this sense of intrigue or perhaps it was just that he literally had nothing better to do, but he liked to look at them. The way their hair fell across their forehead, the way their lips turned up into the slightest smile, as though they'd been instructed to look enticing--not too happy--just enough to make them want you--and for some, Sehun was sure that approach worked. The hotel website didn't list names, so he'd gone another route. School records. Phone numbers. In the end, it hadn't been that hard to get information about the boy.

     Yes, it was a boy.

     No, he wasn't gay.

     Lu Han. A Chinese name, since Sehun was pretty sure that anyone Korean wouldn't have named their kid something so...fairy. He wasn't all that good at linguistics, and he'd stopped paying attention in character class, but finding a Chinese dictionary wasn't a difficult task. Something about a deer. It matched the boy's eyes in a way that Sehun almost didn't like. He didn't want to think of the word 'doe-eyed'. It brought up that godforsaken idea of innocence and even if the boy exuded it to a fine line, to Sehun, that was all just an illusion.

     So, Lu Han. Just shy of twenty-two. High school graduate, good grades, good recommendations. Star of his school soccer team. Got into one of the prominent law schools in Seoul, but never showed up for his first day. Tuition left unpaid. Sehun couldn't find the reason why.

     The hotel was owned by a cover company for one of the local gangs, and seemed to be flooded with their members, plus some strays that brought in good cash. Not much information there, either, since gang protocol usually meant words were exchanged only by mouth and paid for in the same sense. Sehun was only familiar with the idea because of a little side work he did for a lot of cash. Sometimes even gang members--or, to use a lofty word, mob members--needed the help of a computer crack to steal identities or purchase intel. It was a very lucrative deal on his end, and he had yet to run into any problems.

     Lu Han was also booked every night Sehun checked up on the website.

     To make it a game, he'd started checking in three hour increments. If Lu Han wasn't booked, then Sehun had decided that he would book him himself. Just to be a little shit. After all, if Lu Han was that popular, then why not throw a wrench in their plans? Why not make him waste his time sitting around, instead of performing the acts that would actually make him money? (Not that he really saw a point to it. Or anything, really. But it was a pretty easy way to pass the time.)

     Yet days passed, and Sehun never won the game. Irritation was starting to set in, like a dark cloud that hung up in the rafters, where the lights only turned on briefly in the evening and were quickly swapped out for the dull glow of his desk lamp. It felt like an obsession. Why did it even matter, anyway? It's not like Lu Han was really that pretty, right? Was he? Was he that nice to look at? Did he really get Sehun going? It was a thought he wasn't about to entertain. That was simply going too far.

     Then, one day, Sehun came home from the convenience store down the street, toting bags of instant ramen and yogurt tubes, milk and Oreoes, turned on his computer, and went to check the hotel website. His bangs felt unruly; they swept down in front of his tired eyes, and with one hand, he pinned them up against his temple, his other hand clicking at subsequent links to head to the right place. The page started to load, slowly at first, until Sehun banged his elbow against the router.

     And then Lu Han's face was staring out at him right next to a large red button declaring: OPEN NOW!

     And Sehun purchased him for four hours.

 

     The hotel wasn't in a part of town that Sehun particularly enjoyed. Then again, he wasn't sure there was actually a part of town he did enjoy, aside from the convenience store down the street from him and Starbucks. Oh, and that little bubble tea shop where they gave him extra tapioca because he never smiled. There wasn't a bubble tea shop in sight, near the hotel, and instead, Sehun found himself stuffing his hands down into the pockets of his leather jacket, as though certain that some sort of ill will would befall him if he didn't stick close to himself and make no eye contact. His gaze instead followed his sneakers, eagerly watching them move one step at a time, right in front of each other, over puddles that were still leftover from autumn showers and the leaves that had started to stick near the gutters and over the curbs. The only reason he noticed the hotel was because someone stopped him before he even got to the door. Startled, Sehun's head jerked up, and he found himself staring into the eyes of someone even taller than him, a figure that looked outwardly professional and inwardly devious.

     "Do you have an appointment?" they asked him, with all the faux politeness of someone who just wanted an excuse to beat his teeth into his head. Sehun eyed him warily. "Yes," he answered. "I booked room 34 for four hours."

     The bouncer seemed to be unimpressed with his declaration. Sehun felt himself get annoyed. One of the hands in his pocket drew out a folded piece of paper--his 'receipt', which he held up in the man's face, both hands gripping it to hold it flat for him to read. When nothing was said to him, Sehun crumpled the paper back into a ball. "Thank you," he said dryly, starting to move past him before all of his courage liquefied into a puddle in his stomach. Shakily, his hands pulled at the handles of the door, and Sehun let himself inside the hotel.

     It was atypical, for a love hotel--the furnishings looked expensive, but Sehun knew that they weren't actually. There were chairs in the lobby, but Sehun knew that they weren't really there for people to sit in them. It was all just a ploy to make the actions and deeds demanded of strangers inside the walls of the hotel seem more socially acceptable. Everything was dressed in decadent lace, in red and white fabrics, as though the hotel had gotten stuck in some time warp that made it Valentine's Day for every subsequent day of every subsequent year. Still, he hadn't come to admire the decor, and stepping up to the front desk, Sehun requested his room key.

     After more validation and a repetition of his confirmation number, Sehun paid for the room. The price differed, based on a customer's choices, and only part of the fee was required up front. The rest was to be delivered to the prostitute in person; Sehun figured this was their messed up way of making the earnings 'equal', although he knew better than to believe that. It wasn't like these sorts of businesses were involved in supporting any equal income acts or anything. Despite the room number, his home for the next four hours was up one floor, along a flight of stairs that Sehun took willingly over the gold lacquered elevator. Something about the relative silence of the stairwell made him more comfortable with his actions. He still didn't know what the hell he was doing here. Why the hell was he so invested in a pretty face he wasn't even going to screw?

     Down the hall, past some fake roses, was his room. Sehun put the key in, swiped it back out, and frowned at the red light. It took him two more tries to get it to turn green. Disgruntled, he shouldered the door open.

     And found himself face to face with Lu Han, who was just standing there, doe-eyed and lost like an idiot, daring to even look _surprised_ at the sight of him.

     For some reason, the actual sight of the boy, the physical presence of him, threw Sehun off. He was silent, rendered speechless, as the door slipped out of his grip and knocked back into the frame loudly. He only noticed it because Lu Han winced. The little twitch of his eyes was cute.

     "Sehun...sshi?" Lu Han asked him. Lu Han's voice wasn't as girlish as he'd expected it to be. No, this was most definitely a man in front of him. When Lu Han swallowed, his adam's apple bobbed faintly. Sehun wondered why the hell his eyes had focused there, and jerked them back up to meet the other boy's gaze.

     "How do you..." he started, before he stopped himself. Of course. It wasn't like he hadn't been required to enter some personal information to book the room, and even so, any newbie hacker could trace an IP address and find the location of the person using the computer. Then again, Sehun wasn't some newbie hacker, and his IP address was usually clouded behind ten others, redirects of redirects of proxies. Sehun began to wonder if maybe he had underestimated this whole thing. His eyes went to Lu Han again, but the boy was smiling at him.

     "Your shoes," Lu Han said pointedly, and rocked up on his toes. Sehun looked down, dumbly. Bracing one hand against the wall next to him, he pushed off his sneakers, one after the other, and stuffed his socked feet into the slippers provided. Lu Han was already wearing a pair; they were blue, with white stripes. His own were red. When he stepped up into the room proper, Lu Han tried to reach for him. Sehun jerked back.

     That stupid doe-eyed look came back. The difference was, in person, staring at it, Sehun realized that he had been right about some of that innocence. It almost seemed like a smokescreen for something else, as though lying in wait beneath it was some kind of predator, a sheathed strength, a knowledge, that waited patiently, content to hang back until truly necessary. More intriguing than Lu Han's beauty was the fact that, despite his outward bubble of kindness, despite the way he hesitantly reached towards Sehun's arms, tugging at his jacket sleeves, he was humming with latent strength. Somehow, that became a turn on. Sehun let Lu Han's hands follow his arms, push back his jacket, turn him, and strip him down out of it.

     Lu Han hung the jacket up on the rack, brushing out the wrinkles in the fabric. Sehun thought that the movement was completely ridiculous and pointless, but the other boy seemed to enjoy order, and so he didn't say anything about it at all. Instead, he simply admired the lines of Lu Han's body. He dressed simply, but it was that sort of understated fashion sense that Sehun could never pull off on his own. Lu Han's arms moved from beneath the soft cling of striped fabric, a sweater that appeared warm, inviting, paired with simple grey jeans that were chemically designed to look stretched and distressed. Sehun figured that this was the way Lu Han drew people in. After all, a prostitute's livelihood depended much on their return rate. If they were constantly a disappointment, not only would word get around, but they'd never book any regulars, and then they'd end up out on the street turning cheaper tricks. Sehun started to smile. It felt strange on his features, but Lu Han didn't look fazed. In fact, deep within his eyes, Sehun noticed that Lu Han didn't even look interested. That stung somewhere, in the spot where his heart should've been.

     Sehun was the first to speak. "I don't want to do anything," he said. He figured this was going to give him the upper hand. Lu Han was going to be annoyed with him. Lu Han was going to waste his time sitting around, until frustration finally got the better of him, and then Sehun would find out everything he wanted to know about him. He would figure out why he was so pretty. Why he was so enticing. Why Sehun wanted to figure him out so bad.

     The plan wasn't that Lu Han was going to smile at him. That part was unexpected.

     The part where Lu Han came closer to him, and took his wrists--that part, it was a twist.

     And when Sehun's heart, or something like it, started to pound in his chest, as though trying to escape the cage of it, crawl its way up to his throat, his ears--none of that was supposed to happen at all.

     "That's okay," Lu Han answered him amicably. For a Chinese kid, his Korean was good. It flowed well, but the pronunciation was just off enough to know that he was foreign. His fingers were soft around Sehun's wrists; they soon came out further, tracing the backs of his hands, until he was somewhat awkwardly holding them and for the first time in a long time, Sehun felt like a child. Lu Han's eyes were glittering a little in the bright light of the entryway which, compared to the cool darkness behind him, in the rest of the room, felt absurdly blinding. "You don't have to do anything at all."

     It wasn't like Sehun had never had an experience like this. It wasn't like he was some dumb kid swiping his V card in at a seedy hotel with a pro. But he'd never had sex with a guy, and he hadn't had sex with a girl in a long time. Sex was great, it was just the whole part where he felt obligated to connect on a deeper level with someone that made him uncomfortable. Then again, wasn't that the point of prostitution? It wasn't about feelings. Not the emotional, heart-to-heart kind, anyway.

     "Then I want a kiss," Sehun demanded softly. He knew enough to know that kisses were generally off-limits. Even big name clients who paid a hell of a lot of money for their women didn't get kisses. Was it because the act was too intimate? Or was it for practical reasons? Health concerns? Sehun didn't care. Dammit, he was going to find a way to get the situation back under his control.

     Lu Han's head shook slowly, and those eyes peered up at him again. Lu Han, when it came down to it, was a bit short, small and compact. Sehun almost thought it was cute, before he shooed the thought away. No, he was done giving the other favorable compliments inside his head. Lips suddenly dry, Sehun's tongue went out to wet them. Lu Han started to smile again.

     Up on the toes of his slippers, without a word, without even a sound to indicate the shift of material, the poise of his weight, Lu Han's face came close to his and Sehun thought he was going to pass out. Hold your breath. Don't move. Don't flinch. Don't say a word. When his eyes finally closed, Lu Han's mouth wasn't at his; it was near his jaw, it was at his chin, his neck, the path marked with warm breath and just the faint tickle of Lu Han's nose when it bumped the skin.

     Sehun's eyes barely took in the rest of the room as they went into it. There was a four-poster bed with glossy sheets, some flat screen television, two chairs, a coffee table, and an unmarked door with glass that obviously led to the restroom, but he didn't really care. He was done paying attention to detail; he was done thinking. Lu Han's hands were quick and nimble and when Sehun was out of his clothes, it didn't really matter to him. So he'd have to pay a little extra for some actual service. Whatever. He could always figure things out after.

     After what? After his back hit the mattress and Lu Han tugged at his hips, after his briefs were settled down mid thigh and Lu Han's mouth was pressing purposeful kisses up along the bare skin of his stomach? Sehun knew that was probably supposed to be some kind of silent dig at him for his earlier, immature request. But did it matter? Lu Han's mouth was warm, his tongue was quick, and, surprisingly, he was just as good as any girl had been down there. Even better, technically, since he used his hands. Sehun's eyes were staring up at the sheer canopy that hid the ceiling from him, and thoughtlessly, one of his hands went into Lu Han's hair. It felt soft, like sand that fell between your fingers and then seemed to disappear away into nothing. He kept grabbing at it, tugging it gently, before letting it go. Lu Han didn't seem to mind it. He was dedicated to Sehun's body, to the silent cues and soft movements that indicated pleasure, and in an instant, Sehun realized that Lu Han was pretty fucking good at his job.

     He didn't ask him to, but he couldn't undo what had happened once orgasm passed. When Lu Han came back up on the mattress, weight hovering over Sehun's with the dig of his elbows, Sehun's eyes opened and solemnly, wordlessly, he thumbed a bit of liquid off Lu Han's chin that he'd missed. The other boy didn't say anything at all. He seemed to enjoy watching him, and for a moment, Sehun did, too. Their eyes seemed to have a conversation of their own, quiet, calm, communicating in a way that Sehun had never bothered trying before. He didn't like to look at other people. If he had to, he kept his eyes purposefully blank.

     But Lu Han's large eyes blinked once, twice, and Sehun found his own falling. A body settled up against his, and somehow, in all the awkward angles they made together, it felt like a blanket coming over him, soothing him, absolving him of the weeks he'd spent driven by caffeine and not enough sleep.

     Lu Han's breath was pitched with his. Sehun found himself chasing it in his head, until it became nothing at all.

 

     When his eyes opened again, Lu Han was sitting by the only window in the room. Somehow, Sehun had ended up covered with the comforter, and Lu Han was smoking a cigarette, angling the smoke out so as not to flood the room with it. In his other hand was Sehun's phone. The sight of it made Sehun bolt upright, onto his elbows. Lu Han slowly turned to look at him.

     "You still have another half-hour," he said softly. Sehun took awhile to process the information. This was exactly why he hated sleep. It was so pointless. Take a nap and you'd wake up feeling worse than before. His mouth tasted like cement, and he made a face of distate that had Lu Han laughing, softly. Sehun pushed himself back to lean into the pillows.

     "That's my phone," he said. King of obvious statements. One of his hands lifted to thread through his hair, pushing it out of his face.

     "It rang," Lu Han said lightly, waving the device in the air, before he took a puff from the cigarette. "The caller ID said _Brattiest Kid_. You must have nicknames put in."

     Sehun eyed Lu Han for a moment, watching the way his body seemed so casually posed on the window sill. For some reason, he felt like he owed himself something, some cool way to redeem himself for the fact that he just came too early and then fell asleep like a loser for a couple hours after. Lu Han probably thought he was some inexperienced teenager. Sehun didn't know why he wanted to impress him so bad.

     "Oh, that," Sehun murmured, folding his arms against his bare chest. "This guy I knew from high school, he recently came into this mega stash of coke. Total accident. Just sort of fell into his lap if you catch my drift."

     Lu Han's eyes slowly turned to watch him. Okay, so he was interested. Sehun's lips started to curl.

     "He wanted me to set up some online shop for him to sell it all, you know, and make a big profit. Where I'd get some lame percentage of profits. I told him I wouldn't do anything for that little money."

     All this talk about stuff he literally had no clue about. Sure, the story was real, but it wasn't like he even really knew how much the running price for cocaine was, or the increments in which to sell it. In fact, he'd actually told the kid to do some research on the subject before calling him back. That must have been the only reason for the call. It wasn't like he could check, since Lu Han was still holding his phone and looked like he wouldn't be letting it go just yet.

     "Oh," Lu Han said, but his voice betrayed him, a perk of intrigue, even as he put the cigarette to his lips, blew out the smoke. "He didn't buy the product?"

     Sehun found that he wished Lu Han was with him under the comforter. "No," he said softly. "He was hitting some place up and he found the stuff stashed in the back."

     Lu Han's eyes were on him again, instead of the window, but the look was hardly comforting.

     When he got up from the window sill, Sehun slid up to sit properly, expectant, but Lu Han was picking up Sehun's clothes from off the floor, tossing them onto the end of the mattress.

     "It'll be ₩500k," Lu Han said softly. Sehun only started to relax once Lu Han eased onto the mattress, snubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. For some reason, Sehun felt as though he'd never get the chance to touch Lu Han again. Their time was dwindling. He nodded, accepting the price, and reached up with his fingertips to brush Lu Han's bangs away. Lu Han set the cellphone down in his covered lap.

     "What's his name?" Lu Han asked, but he was starting to smile, as though amused by the fact that Sehun had picked such a stupid nickname in his phone. Sehun started to smile back.

     "Just this kid Baekhyun," he murmured, and let his touch fall down to Lu Han's shoulder. He'd taken off the sweater. Beneath it was just a plain gray wife beater, taut around his shape. "Why? You don't seem like a user."

     Lu Han smiled at him again. It didn't reach his eyes. In fact, the innocence in them was so absent that Sehun began to wonder if, while he slept, the room had been infiltrated by someone else entirely.

     "Just wondering," Lu Han said lightly. "So I know whose name to look for in the paper after he's killed."


	2. part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part two: the repercussions of oh sehun's big mouth, featuring baekhyun the naive and zitao the predator.

     Six in the evening. The clouds had long since vanished into the sea of the night sky, like ships that had been totaled, dragged underneath by the current, until there was nothing left but the shadows where they once had stood. The air was cold, a chilling breeze that pierced jackets and dug in through woolen gloves, that found the space between warm skin and the soothing knit of winter scarves. Six in the evening, already pitch black, and for the fourth time that day, that damn kid Baekhyun was inside Starbucks ordering himself a latte.

     Actually, to be more precise--and Zitao took a peek down at the small notepad he had open against his thigh--it was a nonfat no-foam caramel vanilla latte. In other words, it was total and utter crap. Shaking his head a little, Zitao glanced out the windshield of the small, two-door sports car he'd been afforded for this mission. It was one of the personal vehicles from their lot. Zitao could tell exactly who it belonged to simply by the sweet smell of cologne that still lingered around the steering wheel, that caught up around him as he slouched further into the driver's seat. It was no mistake that he'd been handed the keys to this car in particular, and he knew it. Somewhere in his chest, his heart swung with the immature beat of thoughts that were concocted from nothing but a wayward feeling, an attraction, that sparked whenever he met eyes with the vehicle's owner. Having a crush on someone was the most ridiculous thing a person in his line of work could do. Then again, it wasn't as though he'd picked this career for himself; he hadn't stood up in class and proudly declared that he was going to dedicate the rest of his youth to blade work and advanced martial arts and making sure that the last person left standing in an altercation was no one other than himself.

     When he was younger, the whole reason behind the instruction had been simply to give him a sense of discipline. Studying moves had required concentration, ability, and rather than have him waste his time toying around with boys his age who caught frogs or ate bugs just to show off in front of the girls, Zitao's mother had sent him to the temple to learn martial arts. He only realized how ironic the decision was after she'd died.

     Self control? Discipline? Peace with one's mind, body? These were all traits that his mother inherently lacked. What was to say, then, that Zitao didn't lack them as well? Why send him away for so long? Why spend time with him only when absolutely necessary?

     The answer was simple. That didn't mean that it was an answer he had known right away, in the depths of his childhood, when he'd simply wondered why his life had to be the unfair one, why the other kids got to play around yet he always had to stay behind. But the long hours spent at the temple, wasting away energy, growing muscle, leaning out his body, combined with the arduous work ethic he was forced to apply to his schooling, gave his mother the free time to tend to her other long-time habit--well, intense nagging and unrealistic expectations aside. If only she'd had the means to pay for it, too. If only she'd stopped before it got out of control.

     Baekhyun was pushing open the glass door again, and Zitao let out a pained sigh. He'd probably have to follow him to some kind of bar again, like last night--and the night before that, and the night before that. Baekhyun seemed like a kid prone to partying until those bare hours before dawn crept up on the horizon, staining the world with the reality of the night's deeds; then again, in Baekhyun's line of work, his best deals were probably done inside the club scene, back behind sullied curtains or in the cooler depths of the basement. For a split second, barely even a passing thought, Zitao envied him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually been to a club. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had someone touch him, innocently at first, growing more deluded and demanding as the seconds wore by and the music beat into their skulls. Had anyone ever touched him like that? He bit his lip, twisted the key, and listened to the engine purr to life beneath him.

     When he was seventeen, his mother died. A drug overdose, they said; completely preventable, they said. _Why didn't you take better care of her_ , their eyes said. _Why didn't you notice the signs_ , their head shakes said. _Why didn't she take care of me_ , Zitao almost said. His father didn't attend the funeral--he hadn't expected him to, since he'd never come to Korea with them in the first place, and the money that he had sent every month for maintenance and support stopped coming in the mail. Zitao figured that he just plain didn't care anymore. Their house fell behind on payments; Zitao had to start taking showers at the gym in school. Just before high school graduation, the dealers came. Zitao didn't have the money to pay them back.

     The boss arrived, two days later, once Zitao had literally kicked the hustlers out of his living room. He would make a deal, the boss said.

     Zitao had never seen someone so beautiful in his entire life.

     He was tall, as though he'd been hung upside down as a child until all of his limbs stretched and enlarged and filled with the blood that traveled down through his body. He had huge hands--strong hands, powerful hands, that slipped into perfectly tailored pockets of perfectly fitting slacks in a perfect dusky color that matched the overcoat he wore to fight off the autumn chill. Zitao loved the smell of him; it permeated his house, and for the first time in a long time, he was embarrassed of his own surroundings. He had kept the place neat--he had to--but it was hardly decorated; the sofa was lumpy and the television only got basic cable. Zitao could be a real asset, the boss had told him. It was such a nice surprise, he'd added. Sincerest apologies for the lackies, he'd murmured.

     It wasn't as though girls had never caught his attention--but with his schedule, how could they? Men and women became just human beings at the temple; there was no difference between them. Would there really be much of a difference if someone chose to attack him? Would gender matter, outside of the natural agility women had, or the more available strength of men? Zitao stopped paying attention to the differences. People were people. People could be cruel, calculating; people could hurt other people. Everyone had the capacity to do anything.

     Baekhyun wasn't going to the club. Zitao tailed him, always a few cars behind, grinning almost skeptically at the way Baekhyun's left tail light flickered and threatened to give out. Was that God, giving him a sign? Allowing him an opportunity? When Baekhyun pulled his short silver sedan up to the curb, Zitao parked a street light behind, tight next to the curb. He'd never seen Baekhyun go there before. With interest, he settled back in his seat to watch.

     The building was in the more expensive part of town; funny, really, because Baekhyun tended to stick to the slums, never much caring to blow his fortune on petty items. Zitao assumed that the boy had a reason for his career that didn't involve blowing cash on fancy cars or expensive clothes--a dire financial reason, albeit entirely innocent and naive. Zitao almost started to feel sorry for him. If that hacker kid hadn't given up the name, Baekhyun would have had a lot of money to use to get his affairs straight. It was a real pity.

     The contract would be for two years, the boss said; potentially three, depending on how much he screwed up the first year. It would cover all of his mother's debts, from the time where she started falling behind on payments and then, later, when she stopped working as a prostitute. Zitao hadn't even blinked twice at the information. Perhaps it was something he had once noticed but never brought up. Perhaps he had never noticed at all. Zitao, the real Zitao, had become a tiny jewel, kept tight and precious inside his chest, in a ruby-crusted jewelry box with a gold lock and key. He forgot where he put the key. It didn't really matter, anyway.

     Two years. Three, maybe. Zitao had agreed. He had finished high school, left his house-- presumably to be condemned--and moved into the depths of Chinatown, where the New Moon gang, a mixed bag of Chinese immigrants and a handful of Korean social links, had just started gaining notoriety.

     He had always wanted to ask his mother why they moved to Korea. He'd always forgotten to bring it up.

     "What are your memories of Qingdao?" the boss had asked him once, after he'd watched Zitao sparring with one of their trainers. The sweat had dripped off his nose as he came to sat down and, embarrassed, Zitao had mopped it up with his shirt sleeve, which made the boss smile. He liked it when he made him smile. Originally, he had thought of it as a rare occurrence, but more often than not, the man was smiling. Business made him turn cold again.

     "Being hungry," Zitao had answered, an honest little quiver to his voice. That jewelry box inside of him rattled insistently for a moment, and Zitao sucked in a breath, trying again. "The ocean."

     "I've never been," the boss answered, but his head had turned to address a runner who had come to report information for him, and the next words left his lips sounding vacant, distracted. "Maybe we can go sometime."

     Zitao flicked his eyes back towards the building, then looked at his watch, before realizing it was much more efficient to look at the digital radio clock instead. Baekhyun had been inside for at least twenty minutes. Impatient, Zitao started to fiddle with the dial of the stereo, but all that came on was some upbeat pop number from a girl group Zitao had never heard of. Crossing his arms against his chest and leaning back in his seat again, he waited.

     When Baekhyun appeared again, he wasn't alone. Zitao was immediately on edge. The man holding the door open for Baekhyun was tall, impossibly so, and dressed in a pair of ill-fit jeans and an oversized basketball jersey, but he wasn't the one that caught Zitao's attention. Baekhyun's hand was being clasped in the hold of a short, well-dressed businessman, decked out in a custom-made Chanel suit. (Zitao had learned a bit about fashion after he'd come under contract. The boss had required it of him.) To say it was expensive would be an understatement. Zitao could have paid for his own flat with that money. He could have booked a ticket to China with that money. He probably had killed for that amount of money.

     When the street lamp flashed a beam across his face, Zitao recognized the contours, the soft shadows, the neatly styled black hair, and that sickeningly cheap smile--and his hand immediately slid onto the gear stick in reflex. Baekhyun and the other man shook hands the way two people agree on a business arrangement. The door shut again, closing the two inside, and the kid retreated back to his car.

     Baekhyun was in way over his head, Zitao mused to himself.

     It had been four years since he'd signed the contract. Nearly five, actually, if he counted correctly. And, like an obedient puppy, Zitao had stayed where he was wanted, doing work he didn't necessarily enjoy but was trained enough to complete with ease. What else was he supposed to do? Become a freelance assassin for hire?

     What would the boss think of him then?

     The route Baekhyun took was familiar to him this time, and Zitao had no trouble following him. They left the high-rise apartment buildings, the skyscrapers, the constant pattern of neon lights that danced across windshields and scampered off into the distance. The streets gradually became dimmer; the road became less paved, with smart little holes that Zitao had to avoid with tender precaution. After all, this was a precious asset. This was only a loan. This was _his_ car.

     When Baekhyun pulled into the driveway of a rickety old house, the shutters flapping in the slight breeze, Zitao let out a soft sound of pity.

     He didn't really want to have to murder Baekhyun at his mother's house. That was just so disgustingly cliche.

     Parking down the block, a few houses down, Zitao killed his headlights. Baekhyun was lingering in the vehicle, the driver's door open, loud music pumping out of the stereo as he struggled to gather something out of the passenger seat. Zitao slipped from his car soundlessly, the door shutting with hardly a click. His sneakers hit the asphalt with the weight of his step, and calling out in a soft sound, he gathered Baekhyun's attention without much effort.

     "Hey," Zitao called out, a cat-like smile stretching his lips out into a grin. "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you..."

     Baekhyun looked a little apprehensive. Jumpy. Nervous. Either that, or he looked a little high. Zitao hoped it was the latter; it would work to his advantage. His sneakers found the bump where Baekhyun's driveway started. Hovering there for a moment, Zitao pointed tenderly towards the back of the car.

     "Your tail light's burnt out," Zitao murmured, motioning Baekhyun closer with the subtle upturn of his fingertips. "I just wanted to let you know."

     The boy immediately relaxed. "Shit," he mumbled with a grin, and killing the engine-- _stupid_ , Zitao thought immediately, _you're a stupid kid_ \--he swung his keys around one finger, tapping the door shut to start to come around the back of the car. Zitao pedaled back a couple of steps and let out a soft laugh. It was almost, _almost_ genuine.

     "Sorry, I tried to tell you at the stop sign back there, but you didn't see me. I know it's a real pain," Zitao murmured softly, his Korean practiced and soft. Baekhyun was bending over to inspect the tail light, as though he'd really be able to tell its working condition without the car running. He seemed to realize that, after a moment; Zitao almost saw the virtual light bulb start up over his head. He stifled a smile.

     Before Baekhyun could stand up straight again, Zitao had the back of his hair in a tight grip. The sound of his gloves, the leather crunching, melted in with the strands that caught in his hold. When Baekhyun's head coiled back, Zitao squeezed his eyes shut. The sound of his forehead hitting the hard exterior of the trunk made a sick, crunching sound, and his body slid limp onto the cement. Crouching down, an immediate shift, Zitao reached for his hair again, holding his head up to expose his neck.

     "Sorry," he whispered, before Baekhyun's head hit the cement with a forcible sound.

 

     In the dark, the blood looked like oversized rain puddles. Zitao pretended it was so, soft puddles of muddy water that threatened to run onto his sneakers, making him dance and dart away, crouching along the side of Baekhyun's car. With the other's keys in hand--"Sorry," he said again in a whisper--he popped the driver door open.

     Baekhyun really was naive. Zitao still felt sorry for him.

     There was a tiny prick of vibration in his pocket, almost soundless, cradled by the denim of his jeans. Under the relative silence of night, the sounds of televisions and couples arguing filtering through the air from open windows, shrouded by blinds, Zitao flipped his phone open.

     The voice on the other line was amused. Zitao started to smile.

     "If you were a new dealer," Zitao started in a low whisper, as his sleeved arm reached across the car, and gloved fingers yanked a duffel bag across the console, "...and you stole a whole shipment of cocaine from someone else, where would you hide it?"

     The other line laughed. Zitao shushed him, hoisting the bag over his shoulder just as a light flickered on in the top floor of Baekhyun's house.

     "I don't know," Minseok said, his voice crackled and amused through the receiver of Zitao's cellphone. "But I'll bet I wouldn't be able to hide it for long."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( originally written: 2013.08.14 )

**Author's Note:**

> ( originally written: 2012.11.13 )


End file.
